A Mafia Boss Tried to Intimidate Me — He Had No Idea Who My Father Was

Part 2

Greg was experiencing a bizarre cocktail of primal terror and shocking, undeniable intrigue right there on my cutting table.

He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by manufactured toughness and men who just puffed out their chests.

I could feel the arrogance completely bleeding out of him under the pressure of my blade.

He whispered a strained question, asking me exactly what I wanted.

I eased the blade back just a fraction of an inch, allowing him to take a shallow, shaky breath.

I told him his boys were going to walk out the door and he was going to sit in the wooden chair in the corner.

We were going to renegotiate the terms of my existence in this neighborhood, and if he ever insulted my weight or my business again, his own men wouldn’t even find his teeth.

He gave a slow, microscopic nod, acknowledging the reality of his situation.

I smoothly stepped back, releasing him in a single fluid motion while keeping the knife relaxed but ready in my hand.

Greg pushed himself up off the table, gasping quietly as he rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the tiny smear of his own blood on his fingertips.

He rasped a sharp command to Brian and Dan, ordering them to wait for him in the car.

Brian tried to argue, claiming they couldn’t leave him alone with me, but Greg snapped his absolute authority.

The two enforcers glared at me, eventually turning to unlock the door and stepping out into the heavy rain.

The deadbolt clicked shut behind them, leaving me completely alone in the shop with the man who had just tried to ruin me.

I expected him to demand immediate, violent retribution for his wounded pride.

Instead, a dangerous, twisted smile crept onto his face as he watched me wipe down my butcher block.

He pulled up a heavy wooden chair and sat down, his posture rigid but completely lacking his previous arrogant swagger.

He told me I had his attention and asked to hear my terms.

I flipped the switch on my massive industrial meat grinder, plunging the room back into the quiet, rhythmic tapping of the rain outside.

I laid out my terms plainly: total exemption from his collection ledger, absolute protection for the neighboring shops, and a guarantee that Tyler knew exactly why he was walking with a cane.

I leaned forward, resting my thick forearms on my knees, making sure he understood I wasn’t bluffing.

Greg let out a low, raspy laugh, warning me that asking for so much real estate made him look weak to his crew.

I coldly replied that he better learn to swim faster, because if he refused, I would guarantee the police received a very detailed ledger of his uncle’s offshore accounts.

My father didn’t just clean up bodies; he cleaned up paper trails, and I still had all of his safety deposit boxes.

Greg’s breath hitched, realizing I held absolutely all the cards and knew exactly how to play them.

He agreed to my terms, his voice dropping intimately quiet, but insisted I had to do something for him in return.

He didn’t need a killer; he needed a ghost.

The Irish Syndicate was making moves in South Boston again, intercepting his shipments, and someone inside his own family was feeding them information.

He needed me to tap into my father’s old connections to find out exactly who the mole in his family was.

I agreed to ask around, warning him that all deals were off if his men ever snooped around my property.

But would helping the most dangerous man in the city save my shop, or had I just painted a massive target on my own back?